Of the making of many books, there is no end...

Friday’s mail brought me an astounding offer from a book promoter.

In the morning I’d mowed grass, cleaned the pool filter and helped my friend pick up his Rolls Royce from the garage. I drove his Cadillac which is always a nerve wracking experience for me because he keeps both cars in mint condition and I dread the possibility of getting a scratch on one.

But back home I opened the mail to find that a book promoter claimed to have read my work and wants to market it. Wow.

He promised to schedule me for a tv talk show. He promised to air taped interviews with me on two radio shows. He promised to contact every major retail book store telling them about my work. He promised to mail copies of my books to major daily newspapers for reviewers to see. He promised to….

All I’d have to do is pay him $7,500.00 for each book I want to market.

Since I have five books now in circulation I could market them all by paying him only $37,500.00.

What a bargain!

Long ago I learned of the existence of an entire industry which preys on would-be-writers. Some offer to polish your work. Some offer to critique your manuscripts. Some offer to edit; some to promote. Some call themselves agents who will represent your work for a fee.

They all want money from you.

A pox on all their houses.

If you chose to write as a professional, publishing companies pay you; if you write say a poem or a family memoir meant to be read only by your mother or your aunt, then maybe for your self-satisfaction, you might pay a printer.

But for a young writer, the waters are full of sharks whose only interest is to get your money before you sink.

Once years ago, this “person” who owned a publishing company asked me to evaluate the manuscript of a historical novel set in an age I’m familiar with. Of course, I took advantage by asking him in return to read the manuscript of my book The Lazarus Projects.

The gentleman came to me crying. Yes, tears ran down his face. He claimed to have been touched by my account of the crucifixion in th book. He said he wanted to publish Lazarus. He set up an interview with his editor-in-chief. The three of us sat down and talked about the book.

They talked with burning enthusiasm about press runs, size, color process, cover art, distribution packages, remainders, etc. They wanted me to go to a national book sellers' convention in Texas for a weekand man a booth promoting their company’s products. They even offered to give me a new blazer to wear while in the booth shilling their products.

Then I mentioned money.

Back pedal!

They wanted me to do this for “experience”.

No advance. No royalties. No money.

I’d been writing for over ten years at the time and getting paid, not much, but paid for my work. I had all the experience I wanted, thank you.

A week or so later, that editor-in-chief wrote me a nasty letter saying The Lazarus Projects was such garbage that his company would not consider publishing it, however, if I wanted money, they had a job opening for a truck driver delivering their paper products to book stores. Would I be interested?

If such shenanigans were a once in a lifetime experience, I’d be able to write it off as “experience” indeed. But in the course of years I’ve run into such wonderful opportunities for writers again and again.

Writers, beware. There is an entire industry based solely on ripping off writers.

On a lighter note:

Ginny and I discovered a new danger from second-hand smoke.

After breakfast at a favorite restaurant this morning, we sat outside on a bench beside the parking lot smoking. A young family came out of the restaurant to get in their minivan.

A kid, I suppose he was four or five, saw me lighting my pipe. Obviously he’d never seen a man with a pipe before. I fascinated him. He could not take his eyes off me as he walked – BOING! – right into the side of the minivan. He bounced back and fell flat on his tail spilling his carry-out coke all down his front.

Simultaneously, Ginny and I both said, “The Surgeon General warns…” and broke out laughing.

Oh, what about the promoter’s offer?

Unfortunately Ginny shredded it. I forget which famous writer it was, but he replied to a critic’s letter, as best I can remember, with this note:

“I am reading your letter in the smallest room in my house. Your missive is unsettling, but soon I will put it behind me”.